


Where Better to See the Stars?

by Dancains



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: A smidge of sexuality related angst in a blink-and-you-miss-it flashback, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, First Meetings, Hermann and Newt are both unfortunately tacky hipsters of slightly different flavors, Los Angeles, M/M, More of a meet-ugly than a meet-cute, My first Newmann fic..yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: When Hermann takes a temporary teaching position in California, it seems that the stars have aligned. He's finally set to cross paths with the man he's been ardently corresponding with for the past four years-but just because they're meeting in the City of Angels, does't mean things are destined to unfold like an old Hollywood romance.





	Where Better to See the Stars?

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first Newmann fic! I'll probably post an accompanying music playlist with the 2nd chapter because there are so many (admittedly self-indulgent, but hopefully in-character) music references. Enjoy!

"Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." —Frank Lloyd Wright

"I don't like country and western. I don't like rock music, I don't like rockabilly or rock and roll particularly. I don't like much, really, do I? But what I do like, I love passionately." --Chris Lowe, Pet Shop Boys

_Monday 5:06 AM_

_My plane just landed!_

_Dude, I can't believe we're literally in the same city right now!!! I'm dying to meet up!!_

Hermann thought about the text messages for what was probably the hundredth time that morning, a shy, furtive smile still lingering on his face, as he narrowly avoided colliding with a student on her bicycle whipping across one of UCLA's crowded walkways. 

He adjusted his shoulder bag, and straightened his thick, wool scarf out of habit, now reflecting that he might have dressed too warmly, even for a windy morning in September. The Southern California climate wasn't scorching, but it was certainly more temperate than his handful of previous sojourns to the United States, mainly conferences in various cities on the East Coast. 

His invitation to teach at UCLA for a semester (or longer, if he found himself so inclined) had been a surprise, although a very welcome one. Hermann had to admit to himself that Newton Geiszler's recently announced status as a guest lecturer at the University of Southern California (a mere 20 kilometers away) may have had some measure of affect on his own acceptance of the position. 

He smoothed his remnants of a grin into something more suitably neutral as he entered by the back door of his lecture hall, and immediately set to work printing on the large chalk board he had specially requested. He could feel the buzz of tension in the room as the chatter behind him lulled into an expectant silence. 

_Dr. Hermann Gottlieb_

_Introduction to Astrophysics_

The scratch of white chalk was soothing in its ritualism. 

He turned sharply to face the class, already filling almost all of the stadium style seats, even though there were still more than five minutes left until the course's official start time. It was strange to think, that so far from home and now confronted with a sea of new, curious faces, Hermann still found himself completely at ease. 

Meanwhile, reading just a few cellphone keyboard strokes from his dearest friend and pen pal had the power to send his heart into an alarming flutter. 

He took a deep breath, centering himself, and addressed the class. 

Overall, his first day teaching at the university was a light load, only two back to back lectures in the early morning that were mostly spent overgoing his (admittedly, long) syllabus. He had spent yesterday and the day before getting acquainted with the layout of the campus and the surrounding area--dubbed Westwood Village--where his temporary flat was situated. The selection of shops and restaurants were certainly aimed more towards the young, university student set, but were pleasantly alive in that way that was familiar and unique to thriving metropolitan cities. 

He had been glad to find it fairly pedestrian friendly, as Sunday had been an unusually low-pain day for his leg, and the sidewalks were certainly less rain slicked than what he had been accustomed to living in London for nearly a decade. 

Spotting a historical looking edifice with a tall white tower looming over the rest of the surrounding buildings, he realized it was a cinema, and had made the mental note that it might be a pleasant place to occupy one of his free afternoons here. He also scouted out the nearest public library, even if his access to the university's facilities was probably amply suited to any text or literature he might desire, as well as a nearby art museum that he remembered was affiliated with the university. 

That same Monday afternoon, after the completion of his lectures and a brief lunch at one of the "residential restaurants" on campus, he made his way back to his new flat to finish unpacking the last odds and ends he had shipped to himself. He had only brought so much for the relatively short time he would be here, but the small space was still quaint in its minimalism, with a cream-walled living room and a clean, subway-tiled kitchenette. Though first dubious of the market's name, Hermann had been pleasantly surprised by both the quality of the food and produce at the "Trader Joe's"--just two blocks away--and had already filled his fridge and cabinets accordingly. 

He took the X-acto knife where it had been laid on the counter and cut open one of the last remaining cardboard boxes stacked on the coffee table. A soft smile bloomed on his face, as he recognized the succulent plant his sister, Karla, had none-so-covertly slipped into it as he was packing. She had visited him the day before his flight to see him off. 

He set in on the kitchen windowsill, in the embrace of the crisp afternoon sunlight. Although he only had a passing amount of botanical knowledge, he recognized it as _Aloe polyphylla,_ or spiral aloe. The segments of the plant made a perfect round spiral pattern--of course Karla would know that such a thing would be immensely aesthetically pleasing to her brother's mathematical mind. He would have to properly thank her, maybe with a gift in turn from California. 

A sharp, electronic chirp interrupted his thoughts. He scooped his mobile phone up off the coffee table and settled down into the sofa to properly look over his messages. 

_12:43 PM_

_It's funny to think we're finally in the same time zone...you can now enjoy all my brilliant quips and observations in real time!_

Hermann let out a quick huff of laughter from deep in his throat. He pondered what to reply for a moment, than applied himself to the mobile keyboard. 

_12:44 PM_

_Funny, that never seems to have been a problem when you're awake at all sorts of odd hours._

_12:45 PM_

_Haha ;)_

Not quite sure what to say next, Hermann's fingers hovered over the screen. The effort was saved by Newton's next few rapid, back-to-back messages. 

_Today was your school's first day right?? Actually, I know it was because I checked like 3 times..How was everything?_

_I bet those spoiled SoCal surfer kids are in for a hell of a semester (lol)_

_Tbh I dropped dead when I got to my hotel and just woke up (ugh! early flights..managed to entertain myself by finding a few glaring errors in the copy of Popular Science I picked up from the airport gift shop) and I'm probably going to be unfortunately super busy the next couple days but would you want to meet up and do something Friday? Like in the evening_

Hermann could hear his own breath catch in his throat, loud over the slight hum of traffic drifting in from the open window. He decided to address the texts in the order they had come, telling Newton bits and pieces from his first few days in the city and how he was settling into the apartment the university had helped set him up with, everything from his optimism and excitement to the aloe plant his sister had sent him. 

As usual, he felt slightly out of his element talking about himself, but Newton always seemed eager for any tidbit about Hermann's day-to-day life, and Hermann had gradually found himself just as hungry for the same in return. Once their correspondence had shifted from primarily scientific to primarily social, Newton proved to be a constant pouring tap of these small things that endlessly delighted Hermann. Not to mention a source of vigorous yet healthy debate. Even if they hadn't met in person he considered Newton a very dear friend. 

_Friday evening sounds wonderful :) Did you have anything specific in mind?_

He hoped the emoticon was appropriate, it wasn't a frequent part of his textual repertoire. 

_I have to go to this very dry dinner thing held for some of the science depts. at USC that night but I should be able to slip out of there by 7 or so. You've said you like a lot of classic 1940s type movies right? They show a lot of those at the Egyptian theater on Hollywood Blvd. ...In fact I many have already purchased two tickets for a Joan Crawford movie called "Possessed" that plays at 9 that night :)) Maybe we could meet there a bit earlier, pretty sure they have a bar in the lobby, like to have a drink and chat_

_If that's all okay with you I mean!_ was sent a second later, as if Newton was worried he was getting ahead of himself (as he usually seemed to be). 

Hermann licked his lips and re-read over the last few texts, making sure he wasn't misunderstanding them. Drinks and a film, later in the evening--that sounded like a date. Excitement thrummed deep in the hollow of his chest. 

Of course, friends did go out to drink and see films, and the hour was partially due to Newton's prior arrangements. Maybe Hermann was the one getting ahead of himself. Still, the fact that Newton had remembered something Hermann was sure he only mentioned once or twice in passing, his enjoyment of classic cinema, made him feel warm all the same. 

_Far better than okay, Newton, that would be perfect. The film sounds like something I would enjoy. Regardless of the entertainment, I'll be waiting with bated breath._

He felt his face go warm as soon as he sent it. Was that too forward? Or would Newton take it as lightly as his own usual jests? He should follow it up with something humorous, he decided. 

_Also, how formal is this dinner of yours? Should I be expecting you in a white tie and tails for our night on the town? I want to make certain to dress accordingly._

From what Hermann remembered, Newton had a reputation for being one of the most casually dressed professors on MIT's campus, and if anything, was proud of it. Hermann supposed that the fact that Newton had began teaching at such a young age, when he was barely older than his students, might have been a factor in his style and the notability thereof. 

_No, sorry to disappoint! Only my second best suit (my very best is reserved strictly for funerals). I'll be the one wearing the red carnation, though ;)_

Here they were again, approaching that evidently sliver-thin line between flirtatious and friendly. Or maybe it was all in Hermann's head. Their eminent meeting made him now suddenly aware of all the things he didn't know about Newton, even if at the same time he felt as if they knew each other quite intimately. 

Neutrally, he replied: _That's alright. Sounds like a plan._

Hermann pondered the carnation line as he unpacked the rest of the box, discovering the selection of his vinyl records he had chosen to pack, and sorting them carefully on a shelf he had already designated for the task. Obviously it was a reference to a romantic film, "The Shop around the Corner," but one could make the argument that the phrase had entered the general culture as a simple way to invoke two strangers set to meet, not necessarily with the intent of courtship. 

The box now emptied, he plucked a single, worn-but-well-taken-care-of album from the shelf and carried it over to where his turntable was already set up. He set the stylus on to the glossy black grooves and let the opening strains of Bronski Beat's "The Age of Consent" album drift through the flat as he opened his laptop and began to compose an e-mail, _auf Deutsch,_ to his sister. 

They had exchanged a few text messages over the past few days but he hadn't had a good point until now to properly fill her in. Among other things, he mentioned his plans with Newton. By his estimation, it was mid morning in Berlin, and if he knew Karla she was constantly scanning her incoming e-mails. True to form, a reply came almost instantly, without so much as a form of address at the top. 

> What??? Oh my god, you're actually in the same city as your mysterious internet boyfriend? And you're going to meet him?? Why was I only just informed? I still can't believe you don't even know what the guy looks like! Keep me updated so I can start planning the wedding (or, alternately, if it's all an elaborate cat-fishing ruse, I will fly to America myself, bake you a consolatory Bienenstich cake, and personally hunt him down for some sisterly ass-kicking)! Also, I'm glad you like the succulent, and that it had no issue in transit. I think it will flourish in that environment (and that, hopefully, its owner will as well). 

He read the short paragraph over twice and rolled his eyes. If she had been there in person she might have detected the hint of fondness in the gesture. 

> Karla,
> 
> I find it interesting to note that out of the many points of interest in my e-mail (roughly six) you have only found it prudent to respond to one (technically, two, considering the aloe plant). I can assure you that no Bienenstich, or sisterly ass-kicking, will be necessary (though you know I do always enjoy your cooking, neither Dieterich nor Bastien can make it properly like mother) and I will most assuredly keep you posted. As to your other point, I don't think it is quite relevant nor important what my friend and pen pal (who is NOT my boyfriend, I might add) looks like. 
> 
> Besides, some of us might enjoy an element of mystery in our lives. 
> 
> With love, 
> 
> Hermann

He left his laptop open as he fixed himself a cup of tea. Stirring in a dollop of honey to sweeten it, he considered his dilemma, if the situation could be called such. It wasn't that he had _intended_ for Newton to become so much of an enigma to him, it had merely happened that way. 

When Newton had first contacted him, purely professionally, to ask him questions about a paper Hermann had published, Hermann had done a quick internet search of Newton's name, along with the name of his university and had easily found a page on MIT's website with a short biography and office hours. There hadn't been a picture on the page. The e-mail, along with the impressive track record given by Newton's university, had piqued Hermann's interest, and had lead him to look up other projects and periodicals authored by Newton Geiszler, purely through academic databases. 

It was only a year or two later, as their correspondence had gradually continued--and become increasingly friendly, even fond--that Hermann had begun to imagine Newton as something more than simply a friend. 

Learning more about Newton's childhood and teens years and the social ostracization he had faced because of his intellect, and many individual idiosyncrasies, had struck a deep emotional chord in Hermann. Relating similar antagonisms in his youth to Newton was a shockingly cathartic experience.That wasn't the only thing that brought them close. He found Newton's sense of humor, and his bright, sharp wit, to be an even match to his own. He felt as if, in his early thirties, he had finally found someone who could accurately be classed as his peer. 

Of course, his well developed mind wasn't the only thing that made Hermann feel the part of a social pariah in his younger years. He had realized quite young how looking at boys had interested him in a way that girls did not, though it still took some years for the full implications of that observation to come to a head. One memory that still hung sharply in his mind was when he had confided these hitherto unnamed feelings to his sister at the age of fourteen. He had cried, rather uncharacteristically, into her shoulder as she rubbed his back and reassured him that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him--that it was simply another way he was wonderful and unique. 

He had some ventures in dating of course, since then, though few and far in between. Each break up had brought him closer to the definite conclusion that someone like him wasn't meant to find an ideal life partner. Until the creeping notion came upon him that Newton could be that person. 

But Newton was his _friend_ , and beyond that, Hermann had no idea if he had any interest in men, let alone Hermann himself. This line of thought eventually brought Hermann back around to a fact he had been avoiding. He didn't even know what Newton looked like. 

More than once he had typed his pen pal's name into his search bar, mouse hovering over the images tab before he paused. Newton was a semi-notable person, even if he didn't have social media accounts (unlikely, given his personality) there must have been articles with photos about his academic accomplishments (six doctorates by the age of 25 at the least had certainly earned him numerous local, if not national, headlines). But seeing Newton would only make Hermann's imaginings and gradual yearning more real, more tangible. More futile. 

Resolutely, he let that last wall of anonymity stand between them, lest it be too much for him. A good friendship was far, far better than a wounded heart. 

That resolution had only wavered when, not long after that, Newton had sent him a video link of the band he had previously been a part of. 

> Dude, you really don't believe I was in a band?? Just because I'm a scientist doesn't mean I can't also be a rock star. In fact, I firmly believe the two go hand in hand.
> 
> Just found a show we did in 2008 that's still on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jY-8SrE45Gr 
> 
> I'm on the left if you can't tell (lol). The black velvet rabbits kicked some serious ass back in the day. I've tried to get everyone back together since but it's been kind of impossible...

It would be rude not to watch it, right? Or so he had reasoned with himself. 

Furtively, Hermann had glanced around the busy London cafe where he had been checking his e-mails in between classes. He was almost surprised to find the rest of the world continuing on with their usual business, as if something earth shattering wasn't happening in the corner booth by the rain-speckled window. He took a steadying sip of tea, plugged his earbuds into his laptop, and clicked the link. 

As the low resolution video--titled "Black Velvet Rabbits live at Dave's Pub in Boston, Mass 5/18/08"--shifted from blackness into clarity, Hermann nearly started laughing hysterically. All four band members on the stage were wearing realistic rabbit masks, completely obscuring their faces. 

The music started a few seconds later, loud and grunge-y and no doubt "punk," but melodic all the same. The rabbit in the center was clearly the vocalists, and sang with clear, feminine soprano, contrasted against the veritable wall of noise. Hermann paid her little heed as he watched the pixel-formed figure on the left swaying and enthusiastically strumming a vivid blue electric guitar, his all black ensemble making him difficult to make out from the backdrop at times. 

Hermann watched it all the way to the end--just to make sure the band members didn't remove their masks at the end of the performance. He still watched it again after that. And then again. Even if it was far from one of the genres Hermann usually favored, the song was _good._

> Newton,
> 
> Thank you for the link, I believe I stand corrected. You can consider me a new convert to the Black Velvet Rabbit's fan base--do let me know if any of your content is re-released on vinyl so it can be added to my collection...

Back in the present moment, the album Hermann had been listening to finally came to a halt on the platter, the stylus finally reaching the center of the record and leaving the flat in near-silence. Automatically, Hermann got up to flip it to the B-side, but instead paused and glanced at his watch. He still had a few hours to whittle away before dinner, and no pressing academic work to occupy it. Perhaps a trip into the city, he mused. With music now on his mind, he wondered what Los Angeles might offer in terms of record shops. v After some quick googling, he summoned a a car through a ride share app (despite the curmudgeonly impression Hermann gave people, he knew quite well how to use a smart phone, thank you very much, after all they were just small computers). Seeing that it would arrive in less than ten minutes, he changed into a fresh shirt and sleeveless jumper, reluctantly forgoing a blazer. 

After taking the building's elevator down to the ground floor he glanced at his phone again, re-reading "Shatterdome Records'" business description: _Located in West L.A., we sell new and used: CDs. Vinyl. Tapes. DVDs. Imports. Indies. Rarities. Magazines._ It sounded promising, a little local flavor perhaps. Getting some air would do him good. 

A friendly young man named Raleigh picked him up, and from just a glance Hermann wouldn't be surprised if he played American football, or simply bench pressed American football players for fun. Hermann surveyed the passing city as Raleigh peppered him with well-intended small talk, watching the bustling, diverse foot traffic, occasional food trucks, and palm-tree lined streets. 

"So, you live in L.A. or are you just visiting?" 

"Oh," Hermann paused, "I'll be here for some months, for work." 

"Cool, cool," Raleigh took a slightly sharp left turn. "let me guess, from England?" 

Hermann's nails reflexively dug into the leather of the car's back seat. Was it really necessary to go this fast? "No, well, Germany originally. Bavaria. I have lived in England, though. So you're not wrong." 

He could see Raleigh nodding in the rear view mirror. 

"Nice, my girlfriend's dad is from there. Military family though, they moved around a lot." 

"Ah." Hermann didn't really know what to do with that information. 

"I'm from Alaska, myself actually. But I love the weather here--oh, here it is on the right! Short trip." He abruptly pulled over the car, and Hermann exhaled. 

"Have a good one, man." 

"And, um, you as well," Hermann nodded. 

Shatterdome Records was on a small side street not far from the Interstate 405, crowded between a Palm Reader's shop and a hole-in-the-wall delicatessen, one of it's few outdoor tables occupied by a man eating a sandwich and chatting loudly over his cellphone. Inside, Hermann found it pleasantly cool and dim, soft jazz-like music filtering through old speakers. It smelled faintly of dust and lemon-scented cleaning fluid, and perhaps a smidge of incense sticks, which they sold in boxes at the counter. He let himself get lost in the repetitive motion of "crate digging," flipping through the albums at his leisure, looking for anything that might catch his interest. 

The peace only remained for a few long moments, until a man entered the shop, apparently mid-conversation on his phone. Hermann belatedly realized it was the same one who had been sitting at the deli next door. He could feel his lip curl in annoyance as the man's voice carried, loud and high and sharp, across the small space. Hermann knew he was probably overreacting, but it still felt as if it was some sort of personal affront. 

"Yeah, dude, that sounds great! We should totally do that....Yeah, Tendo, I really gotta go, I just walked into this, uh, music shop...In Sawtelle, I think, yeah...Okay. Tell Alison 'Hi.' Congratulations, again! Okay, later, man." 

_Finally,_ thought Hermann, as the man shoved his phone into his pocket and made a bee-line to the rack of used science fiction DVD's. 

A few minutes later, as Hermann held up a record to the light, flipping it over to scan the songs listed on the back cover, he noticed the man across the shop looking at him. He accidentally made eye contact with the stranger before hurriedly returning his attention to the album in front of him. Quite possibly the man was simply gawking at the large reading glasses perched on Hermann's nose--more than one person had told him that the accompanying glasses chain, along with his wardrobe, made him look like a librarian. But if that was the case, it was mildly hypocritical, considering the stranger's appearance was far more outlandish. 

Furtively, Hermann couldn't help but glance up at him again, over the rim of his glasses, as the man sifted through DVD's. He was wearing a snug black tee-shirt sporting an unfamiliar logo, and even snugger dark jeans. The most eye-catching features on his person, though, were the faded-yet-colorful, Japaneses-style tattoos that ran all the way down the lengths of his arms to his wrists, and the assortment of silver piercings that glinted in both of his ears. 

Hermann watched as he crouched down to look at something on a lower shelf, his jeans pulling even more taunt, if that was possible, across the curve of his backside. Even if the man had both questionable etiquette and body art, Hermann was only human. 

It didn't hurt that the stranger was short and slightly stocky, admittedly in line Hermann's tastes. For some reason he vaguely recalled a coworker inviting him to a rugby game when he first started teaching at Oxford. He had only gone out of social obligation, but ever since then, perked up slightly when he came across a game on television. For purely sporting reasons, of course. 

Hermann adjusted his glasses, and went back to the crates, amassing a small collection of finds under his arms. Finishing one table, he turned around to look over another, with cardboard boxes filled with 45 RPM singles. A hand-written paper sign advertised a 5 for $10 deal. He was vaguely aware of someone moving behind him. 

"Oh! Sorry about th-" 

A man-- _the_ man--had brushed his hand as they both reached to pull a particular record from one of the boxes. Startled, Hermann found himself staring into wide, green eyes through thick-framed glasses. 

"That's fine," Hermann cut him off breathlessly, "did you want-" He proffered the record. They were probably the type of glasses people wear for fashion instead of necessity, anyway. 

"No, no! That's cool. Just, uh, just looking. I don't even own a record player, actually." He laughed nervously. 

Hermann raised an eyebrow. 

"I mean, I'm thinking of getting one, like getting into the whole collecting thing, ya know?" He was still talking slightly louder than what was probably appropriate in the quiet shop. 

Were all Americans this talkative, or just the ones Hermann seemed to encounter? "It can be...a very enjoyable hobby." 

The man nodded enthusiastically, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. "So, you into, uh...Pet Shop..Boys?" he asked, squinting at the record in Hermann's hand while gesticulating slightly. "Is that like surf rock, like The Beach Boys?" 

In all truthfulness, Hermann didn't just like them, he loved them. The English musical duo's catchy yet sensitive and intelligent lyrics had gotten him through the painful, alienating years of his teens, introducing him to something upbeat and different, beyond the stuffy classical music and opera that were otherwise the only music of his upbringing. Finding out that the lead singer was openly gay from a music magazine article, when Hermann was 15, had made him feel a little less alone and a little less wrong in a time when he felt perpetually lonely and perpetually wrong. From there on, 80's synth-pop music, and collecting the vinyl it was lovingly pressed on, had become of indulgent passion of his. He wasn't going to tell this man all of that, though. 

"Yes, I'm quite familiar with their work. And no, they're not like "The Beach Boys". They're one of England's most well known pop groups and have been pioneering sophisticated electronic music since the mid 1980's, along with having written a ballet and a score to accompany a Sergei Eisenstein film." 

"Ah." the man nodded, clearly still feigning interest, for whatever reason. 

"I believe their first single "West End Girls" was a number one hit in the U.S. In 1985. Perhaps a bit before your time." Frankly, it was far before Hermann's "time," but he did often give the impression to people that he was older than he was. 

The stranger laughed--no, more like a chuckle, and Hermann furrowed his brow. It was times like these he sometimes struggled to tell if someone was poking fun at him. 

"They, uh, they sound cool. Seriously. I mean I'm always looking to expand the 'ol listening horizons. I'm more of Sex Pistols guy, ya know? Like Buzzcocks, The Damned, The Stooges, proto-punk type of stuff...you like Iggy Pop at all? You seem like you might be an Iggy Pop kind of dude." 

Hermann was only somewhat aware that was a person. "No. I can't say I am." 

The man nodded, licking his lips like it was some nervous tick. His hair had an unruly look to it, which was probably meant to be stylish but made part of Hermann itch to run a comb through it. "This whole vinyl trend coming back so is funny," the man went on, "I have this really good friend who swears by it, like the 'warmth of the sound'"-- he added air quotes--"or something, but...it's all complete bull." 

"E-excuse me?" It took a few long seconds for Hermann to process the words. 

"I mean, hey, don't get me wrong, the people who openly admit it's purely an ironic, hipster nostalgia trip are all right, but to think you're getting any better sound quality than digital is ludicrous--most Mp3 files being totally over-compressed to complete shit notwithstanding. People go to places like this and buy used records that are 10, 20, hell, 50 years old and expect them to sound great on their tinny $60 suitcase player from Bed Bath and Beyond, and then when it sounds horrible they chalk up all the hissing and popping and static to 'authenticity.' Not to mention all that money down the drain, and these things all sitting like pretentious dust collectors on the shelf. I mean for like ten bucks a month I can listen to literally anything, instantly, on my phone. Way of the future, man." 

Hermann straightened his back, his white-knuckle grip loosening and tightening around the handle of his cane. He was stunned. What on _earth_ did this man gain from antagonizing him? 

"It is often not the collection, but the act of collecting that people gain pleasure from." He countered coolly. "Not to mention the historical and cultural significance of these records as...as artifacts. Some people like to own a bit of history." the last few words came through gritted teeth. 

The man had the audacity to smile. "Yeah, and some people like to dress like one too." 

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Hermann sized up the man in front of him, or at least what he could see through the growing metaphorical red haze. It was as if he had zero verbal filter. 

"Well, at least I dress like an adult. Not someone who's sixteen year old plea-for-attention never quite ended." He set down the stack of records that had been cradled under his arm, not intending to stay long enough to purchase them. "I'd ask for your help to put these back if I thought you could manage to reach the high shelves. Good day to you." 

"Wait, wait, wait-" the stranger's words stumbled over his tongue. He reached out to touch Hermann's arm, making him flinch. "I'm sorry, forget I--forget I said all of that! Sometimes my mouth just...doesn't cooperate with my brain. I guess I was just trying to find an excuse to keep talking to you." 

"Why?" The single syllable left his mouth before Hermann could contain it. 

The man hesitated, pushing back his hair with one jittery hand, truthfully mussing it further instead of fixing it. He put on what he probably thought was a winning smile. "Let's try this again. Would you like to go out for a drink or something? I mean, can I at least give you my number?" 

Hermann let out an uncharacteristic bark of laughter, a sharp knife into the odd tension that had been growing between them. Or more accurately, a pin prick into a bright blue helium balloon. 

The man's face fell. "I'm sorry if I'm barking up the wrong kind of tree here, I mean maybe I shouldn't have assumed that you'd be into guys, but I thought 'hey, fortune favors the brave'..." He trailed off. 

Some submerged part of Hermann was genuinely surprised by this revelation, maybe even conflicted, but he kept his outer shell cool and placid all the same. He forced a smirk to his lip, knowing he could look quite cruel if he tried. Letting his eyes linger up and down the man he replied, "Oh no, darling, right type of tree...but quite the wrong type of dog." 

The man's dumbfounded face was perversely satisfying, even if only for the one second until Hermann turned sharply on his heels and simply left. 

He had half expected the man to follow him out of the shop, but instead the sound of his own footsteps were the only thing that carried on behind him. He walked aimlessly for a good fifteen minutes, in what he later thought was a general west-ward direction, until he hit a larger, busier cross street. 

Whatever part of the city he was in seemed to have a lot of sushi restaurants (and Starbucks coffee shops--but they were everywhere anyway), and for a moment he entertained the thought of having a meal, until he realized that it was only three in the afternoon, and that he wasn't actually particularly hungry. 

The pain in his knee was now finally prickling enough to distract his attention, so he sat down on a bench and summoned a ride with the same app he had used earlier. Looking over his shoulder, he could see through plate glass into the restaurant behind him, where colorful sushi rolls on small plates traveled down a conveyor belt, only to be plucked like ripe plums by the handful of patrons sitting at the bar. Despite the early hour, he had an absent craving for a tall, cool pint of beer. 

It wasn't that he hadn't considered it. Even now he was still going over the events in his mind, not just what happened but what could have happened. An interesting tryst might have come of it, that was certain. Just a one-off of course, a little souvenir he would carry only in his memory. 

A stupid, indulgent fantasy played out in his mind, him bending the man over one of the shelves in the record shop, one hand going to the too-tight fly of his jeans and the other covering his mouth, half-smothering all of the eager, desperate sounds that would spill out of the stranger's pretty pink lips. If he was that loud during a regular conversation, it didn't take much brain power to imagine how might sound in bed (or not-bed, were that to be the case). Not to mention his idle curiosity (fascination? or perhaps even mild disgust?) as to how far his tattoos might have covered. None of the men Hermann had been with before had had so much as a drop of "ink." But realistically, Hermann had no desire to go through all of the awkward, uncomfortable hiccups that were involved in the process of sleeping with near-strangers. Especially one who had wrung such an uncharacteristically infuriated outburst out of Hermann in two minutes flat. 

More significantly, even thinking about it made him feel _guilty_ in a way he knew was irrational. Guilty because he'd be betraying the real object of his affections, a man he's never met, and was quite likely never to have feelings for him in return. 

Hermann was glad at least that the ride back to his flat was blessedly conversation-free.


End file.
